Now You Feel Like Number None
by E-121 Omicron
Summary: You are not special. You are not strong. You are not valued. You are an old model - disposable. A footsoldier in the army of a would-be god, keeping her head down, running errands for the terrifying Espada as the world of endless night prepares itself to do battle against the Heavens. All you want, is to not get eaten alive. There is nothing more to your existence. ...until today.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome to Now You Feel Like Number None. This story was originally posted on the Sufficient Velocity forums. It takes the form of a Quest, an interactive fiction. At the end of each update, a choice is proposed and voted upon. In this case, the options selected by readers during the story's original run are checked for clarity's sake.

* * *

_You live in a world of endless night._

_You are a monster born out of a legend. When a mortal dies with a soul weighted down by regret and earthly passions, her ghost lingers on as a tormented creature. Eventually, grief consumes this soul, and it becomes a monster. Plagued by a hunger for the souls of others, these Hollows may eventually turn on each other; and from their great interdevouring are born the greater horrors of the dead, which flee the abhorrent sun into a world of their own making._

_In a world of endless silver sands, under a starless night and a laughing moon, the greater dead eke out a life of eternal hunger, ever feasting upon each other. For centuries, all you knew was this hunger and the howling of the thousand souls within you. To even remain a single person - to keep your identity, your sense of self - took all your effort and resolve. It took more than this. It took consuming the souls of others just as powerful and tormented as you were; you sew together the cracks in your being with the spiritual energies of countless others._

_If ever you failed, if ever you faltered in your feast, you would fall back; your sense of self would be torn apart by the howling storm of souls within you. You had to kill. You had to live._

_And then… A man came to you, a man of a kind that should have by all rights killed you. He saw in you a glimmer of potential, however dim, and showed you how to break free of your chains. For ages you had worn a mask to hide your pain and self-loathing; but he showed you how to break that mask and reveal to the world a face full of certainty and purpose._

_And when he told you of his quest to claim the throne of God in the skies, you bent the knee and swore loyalty to him._

_The hunger was gone. And without it..._

_...what was left of you?_

* * *

_The Hollow World, like its inhabitants, has an endless hunger. It gnaws at those who wander its sands and sleep under its sky. In a desert where nothing ever changes, it's so easy to get lost._

_At least the sand doesn't cling to your pants._

_You clutch your compass tighter. As long as you have it, you can always make it back to Las Noches. To something in this nothing._

_For now, you scout. It's a pointless duty, and one you were never commanded to do, but it's better than lazing about. Even if it's hardly less boring, it feels right._

_You stop and look around, brown eyes wide behind your mask. The moon is only half-full. It's evening. There's hardly a breeze._

_Was it nothing?_

_You draw Polilla. You could have sworn-_

_Sand tumbles down the dunes, and this time you're sure. Something's moving. Underground._

_You take to the sky and stand there instead. You're not going to let yourself be food._

_One of the dunes moves. A white horn bursts through the side, followed by one grey leg. Then another. And another._

_That's... a lot of legs, you think, as the beast shakes off the sand that had covered it. Now that it isn't masquerading as a dune, you can see it fully. It looks like a horned spider. With, somehow, too many limbs, and a hollow hole punched horizontally through its abdomen._

_It's weak, you decide. Just a regular hollow, not so hungry as to need more than the air and sand of Hueco Mundo._

_You ready Polilla and prepare to dive._

_"Hello!" it rumbles, and you pause._

_Hello?_

_"I have slept long. What are you?"_

_You are Nemo Elcorbuzier, Arrancar #48 in service to Sosuke Aizen._

_The beast hums contemplatively. It sounds like an earthquake._

_"Never heard of him," it shouts up at you._

_You don't sputter, but it's a close thing. Aizen's ruled Las Noches for... well you're not sure, really, but quite a while._

_"A ruler? Now that's a rare thing," the spider replies. "Come down here, we can hardly have a conversation shouting at each other."_

_You descend cautiously._

_"You are a small morsel, aren't you?" it asks. "Surely you can't be that fast with legs that short."_

_You're not sure if you want to be offended or wary of the implication. You're faster than it, you're sure._

_"Pah, maybe in a sprint," it scoffs. "But over a journey I think my legs will hold up better. I can rest some while others walk, and you cannot, biped."_

_You're skeptical._

_"A proof then. Let me carry you to this lord of yours, and see if the leaving was faster than the return."_

_And why should you trust it?_

_"We are both Hollow, you and I, and yet it is not our bellies that are empty," it answers. "Now will you let me aid you on your journey and see this Las Noches?"_

_...Fine._

_You climb into the abdomen of the beast. Now that you're here, you can see what look like seats carved into the dark chitin of the hole. Little more that divots, filled with white sand, but they are reassuring and you settle down into one._

_And it is well that you did, because the beast is not gentle as it moves. However, despite the bruising your backside has suffered, you begin to see the pillars of Las Noches pass by far sooner than you'd expected._

_The spider stops before the great gates. They're unmanned, as usual. No threats exist to Las Noches in Hueco Mundo. You're alone._

_You disembark from the beast. It should hide, under the dunes. Another arrancar might think it good prey. You should give it that much advice, as thanks._

_"Thank you, small thing," it rumbles. "It is good to be of use once again."_

* * *

You are **Nemo Elcorbuzier,** Arrancar of Las Noches, servant of Lord Aizen, and you are reaching the end of a journey.

Your feet hit the silvery sands of the Hueco Mundo, and you feel yielding under you. A familiar sensation so absent in the sun-lit world. You turn and wave your hand as a goodbye, but already the great spider that carried you so far is scurrying away, somewhere away from the ever-present threat radiated by the walls of the fortress.

Las Noches stands before you, its walls so tall as to swallow the sky. It is a construct so vast it never registered to you as a building; rather it is a feature of the landscape, a mountain made by hand. Hands like yours.

You pass the great gates and flinch behind your mask. The sudden shift from endless night to endless day is jarring; you see blue skies above your heads, clouds even, and you know they are false but your body believes their lie. You are not fond of the day.

They say the dome of Las Noches has its very own sky because the sun is Lord Aizen's eye; that wherever fall its rays Aizen can see. It is always day in Las Noches because there is no respite from his gaze.

Or perhaps it's just Aaroniero messing with the underlings' minds.

The fortress is far too vast for convenience - far bigger than warrants the number of personnel in Aizen's army. It takes you hours to reach your destination, at which point you really wish you could have invited the spider Hollow into the walls. Eventually you arrive at a wide cylindrical building of grey-white stone, windows pierced at seemingly random intervals through its walls by some demented architect.

Enough with walking. You pause below the wall, assessing the height to the window you want to reach; it has a scarlet scarf blowing lightly in the wind, put there by you weeks ago as a reminder. You crouch, tensing your body, and kick the ground.

You don't fly - but you jump good. You hit the walls a dozen yards or so up, and immediately start running. Your cloak billows behind you, parting in two like great moth wings. You start losing your footing and falling back. You push yourself harder in response, a swift kick letting you cross another ten yards in one moment. To any onlooker you would appear to have simply teleported from one spot to the next.

You paddle a little on the last few yards, starting to lose your ground, but you reach the window in time. Your hand darts out and you grab the ledge, then pull yourself up. You land in the room a little less gracefully than you'd hoped, and give a quick and nervous look around to check that nobody saw it.

You're alone in the room, of course - this is Las Noches, density one Arrancar per square mile at best. Your improvised bedroom-apartment is all yours with no one to contest it, but by the same token there is no one else to help you put it together. You had to grab items where you found them… sometimes with a little sleight of hand. But you're happy enough with your little nest. The bed is made up of layers and layers of silk stolen from the nest of some kind of caterpillar-Hollow, and the furniture varies between pleasantly-shaped rocks found in the desert and the odd colored squares typical of Las Noches' architecture. Your curtains, you stole from the human world in one of your rare ventures out.

You take off your wing-cloak and hang it on a nail you hammered by hand into the wall. Then you sit on a rock that's more a suggestion of chair than anything, and brush the silver sand from your uniform.

In fact there is entirely too much of the damned stuff. Your feet whisper faintly with every motion. Sighing, you pull off your boots and shake them, letting the silvery grains fall out onto the ground until they're empty.

Aw, now there's sand on your floor. How will you ever get it out? You don't have a broom. You're not sure anyone has a broom in the entirety of Las Noches; it seems a bit too mundane for the grand designs of the Espada.

You hear a faint giggle, and your head snaps in the direction of the sound.

"Oops, I've been made," says a feminine voice, and the intruder steps out from behind a curtain. It's Esmeralda, a slender Arrancar with short, dark hair and a tired look, her mask covering half her face. How long was she here?

"Oh, I saw your brave attempt at climbing."

You let your head droop, crestfallen, and she giggles again.

"Don't worry. I certainly wouldn't have managed to even reach the window if I'd tried that, so you're already doing better than I am. You'll get the knack of it in time, I'm sure."

You sigh again. You appreciate her reassurance, but you've always been terrible at the raw physical aspect of being an Arrancar. Your Sonido in human form is just shameful.

But really, that's besides the point. She's just trying to distract you from the obvious question, that being what she was doing in your room when you weren't there! You give her a suspicious look, frowning.

"Oh, don't be silly. You know how long it takes to get there from the gates. Someone spotted you and told me, and I knew you'd come here, so I came to wait for you."

Well, it's not like you don't appreciate the company after all these days in the desert. The loneliness is rather consuming. You give her a fond smile, stand up from your rock and take off the scabbard at your waist, laying it on a table… Is that a table? You don't remember if you decided it would be a table, a nightstand or a chair.

Look, it's a featureless white square frame. It could be anything. You have to use your imagination.

"I wouldn't get settled back in so soon, actually," Esmeralda says with a contrite look. "I didn't come here just to say hello - I actually have orders."

Oh, goodie. You can't even catch some rest, it seems.

"Look, you know how it is. Ever since Lord Aizen came back it's been hectic. Well, _he _hasn't been, obviously, he's just always so… stoic and calm, like he isn't really doing anything. But around him everything is in a rush. I think the Espada are running out of Arrancars that are, uh…"

Disposable. You'd bet they still have their own Fraccion longing about not doing anything much, but they "can't spare them." So the work gets foisted on the unbound like you.

"Don't be like that. We all do what we can for Lord Aizen and the Hollows as a whole."

You shrug noncommittally. Your thoughts on the matter are complicated.

"Be that as it may, we have several orders from various Espadas, and they're all very insistent that I grab the first Arrancar to step through the gates and throw their task at them as a priority over the rest."

And here you thought she liked you.

"Don't look so glum, it also was nice to chat! Anyway, Granz wants to talk to someone about catching a deserter who ran off into the desert with, I quote, 'valuable scientific data.' Aaroniero wants someone to… go hunt a Hollow? I can't see why we'd do that anymore, but whatever. Oh, and…" She swallows nervously. "...King Barragan needs a scout to check on some rumors he's heard? And they all assure me that this is very important business, but apparently not important enough to send one of their Fraccions. Well, that's not fair, Aaroniero has no Fraccion." She leans conspiratorially towards you. "I think he ate the last ones they gave him."

You breath sharply, something like a laugh that died on takeoff. Esmeralda shakes her head.

"Honestly, I think they're just bored and like seeing us scurry around at their beck and call. Anyway, seeing as you can't be in three places at once, you should go see one of them and when the others complain I'll say that the other had already snatched you before I could tell you about their so-much-more-important business."

Sounds like a plan to you. You'll go meet...  
**  
**[ ]Szayelaporro Granz, the mad scientist, who wants you to find a deserter with stolen scientific data.  
**[ ]Aaroniero Arruruerie, **the cannibal Gillian, who wants you to hunt down a Hollow of particular interest to him.  
**[X]Barragan Luisenbarn, **the deposed king, who wants you to investigate rumors concerning a lost item.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Lost Crown

**II. The Lost Crown**

It would be unwise to ignore the requests of a king, you know this. You pick your sword again and hook it at your waist, resigning yourself to further service.

"It'll be fine, I'm sure," Esmeralda says encouragingly. "It can't be that important if he isn't sending his Fraccion, and if it's not that important it can't be too dangerous."

You smile weakly and give her a nod, although you're not sure how accurate her reassurance is. You pick up your coat again and walk up to the window, looking down at the sand below…

...you'll try this some other day. You wisely opt to take the stairs, waving a goodbye to Esmeralda which she returns.

"Stay safe!"

* * *

Barragan's hall is built to inspire awe.

It harkens to the night of Hueco Mundo, lost when the invaders ordered a dome built over Las Noches. Great walls of black stone rise around you, so far apart as to make every corridor seem like a hall of its own. In the ceiling, diamond-shaped holes stream in faint sunlight, creating the illusion of stars.

Your steps reverberate across the stone corridor, and are met with echoing sounds. From the dark ahead comes a tall and slender man, blond hair flowing past his shoulders. Almost his entire face is covered by his mask, even his eyes featureless yellow glows; only his mouth and cheeks show. In this perhaps you could feel kinship; Arrancars with almost-intact masks are often seen as incomplete, imperfect, and this is something you both share.

But he is Findor, and nobody likes Findor.

"The King will see you now," he says with a curt nod, then turns his back and motions for you to follow him.

The closer you get to the center of the building, the faster your heart beats. Your shoulders tremble slightly as you feel the waxing tide of a godlike reiatsu, one of the strongest you've ever felt.

Findor pushes open two great doors and you enter the room that could have been called a throne room, if Barragan still ruled. The pressure is most intense here, a grasping sensation on your bones, a push on your shoulders, whispering to you - 'Kneel.' At the far wall stands a stone chair, blocky and featureless, and in that chair an old man, brown skin weathered by the pretense of age, thick white moustache and eyebrows dominating his sharp-angled face. The man rests on his elbow, a picture of ennui, and as you come in he barely grants you a look.

Findor kneels in front of his master, and you quickly do the same.

"Majesty, you ordered for the first Arrancar to come back to Las Noches to be brought before you. She is here to await your orders."

Barragan furrows his eyebrows, looking you over, and you feel the pressure of his power intensifies as he gauges you - and then recede as he deems you of too little note to bother cowing.

"Such a trifle you are," he says, his voice old and deep. "A moth? More like a mayfly. I do not remember ever seeing you before."

He has, several times in fact, but you think it careful not to mention this aloud.

"Did you ever come to Las Noches? Before this, I mean, when the skies were my roof?"

You did, a few times. You never enjoyed it much; the presence of the King of Hueco Mundo was overbearing, his intent malignant, his servants fanatical. You didn't long. These were days of captivity in freedom: you had the sky to yourself, then, you were great and fast, a weightless winged thing of shadows and carapace, but a prisoner to your own hunger, to the fear of falling back. When you came to Barragan's court and mingled with his servants, you feared what you saw, and feared what you might become if you stayed too long.

"You saw its glory, then," the old man pursues. "But this is not the Las Noches of old, and there is a lord above me now. Aizen may rule over Hollows, but he is a shinigami at heart. He believes a palace should have a roof, and a sky a sun. For all his power there are things he does not comprehend. About our world, about our nature. He is a conquering king, a stranger in his new realm."

You shudder slightly to hear such talk. You are well-familiar with the fears of the low-ranking Arrancars, who believe that lord Aizen hears and sees everything within his fortress; that to talk ill of him in his absence is foolishness or suicide. But an Arrancar of Barragan's power has little care for such fears.

"And if you came to Las Noches when it still deserved this name, you must have seen me then. The power and glory of my natural form."

The crowned skull; the black regalia; the ruler of time, all names for one terrible being. Your hands clutch, fingers grasping at the stone ground beneath you. Memories of a Hollow's punishment, of the weight of millenia passing in a blink, of flesh turned to dust...

"You will perform a task for me, mayfly," Barragan says, straightening his posture. Besides you Findor tenses, his posture tinged with anger. "I had a crown in those days. Not the gracile thing that adorns my brow when I assume my full power today; not a part of me, but a work of art, a tall golden headpiece offered by a faithful servant. When Aizen conquered Las Noches it was lost; some treacherous inferior saw it fall from my head, and absconded with it."

"The crown is a… Memory," Barragan says, measuring his words. "It holds no power, and it is no longer a symbol of kingship, for Aizen rules and he desires no crown. Yet it is valuable to me. Over the years I have heard word of it appearing in some place or another, traded or stolen, and sent my Fraccions to investigate each time, but it was always gone again by the time they arrived. I have grown tired of sending my best servants only to fail again and again, and besides most of them are tending to more urgent tasks anyway."

The yellow glow of Findor's eyes brightens, for one heartbeat, so brief you wonder if you had not imagined it.

"I now hear the crown has appeared again, and I still desire it, but it is a task more deserving of a mayfly like you. Findor will tell you where to go; you will do everything in your power to retrieve my crown. Failure will be met with punishment. Do you understand?"

You swallow nervously and bow your head lower.

"Good. Now begone, mayfly."

You stand up, shaking slightly, and bow again before departing from the room. Findor follows you; you envy the ease with which he moves through his master's aura, the pressure making the air thick as molasses to you. Can a mere Fraccion truly be that much stronger than you, or is it simply force of habit that allows him to endure this power unflinchingly?

You've heard rumors among other low-ranking Arrancars that the constant proximity to the immense reiatsu of the Espada changes a Hollow, coaxes out their own power, and that this makes Fraccions stronger than Numeros. You doubt it. It seems more likely to you that the Espada simply pick powerful Arrancars as Fraccions in the first place.

"There is a village five days to the northeast," Findor says, locking steps with you. "Sitting by a small oasis, not far from a leafless grove. It was wiped out a few days ago. A few survivors came wandering here, hoping for safety in Las Noches. They were weak, and were cast out. It was only afterwards that we Royal Fraccions heard what they'd said: that the Hollows that had come as an army to raze their settlement were led by a Menos with a golden crown, tall and four-sided. We brought news to our king, but as you heard, it is not the first time this happens, and he has grown tired of failure. He sends you because you're unimportant, and if you fail, as you will, may be punished without losing a valuable subordinate."

The bluntness of the speech halts your steps. Findor eyes you, his mask making it impossible to read his features.

"We are the Fraccions of King Barragan. Where everyone else has forgotten his rightful title, we remember. We stand by his throne. We carry his axe. Do not think that an outsider like yourself, a weak opportunist, may rise to our ranks for a service rendered. There is no loyalty in your heart."

Or perhaps they are just holding on to bygone titles of an era when they still had relevance. Barragan is no longer the King of Hollows, and they seem a little foolish holding onto that claim. You don't tell Findor that, though.

"I have given you directions, and the King has given you orders. I am not required to assist you any further. Go, look for clues of the crown's whereabouts in the ashes of a ruined village, fail as we did before, come back and meet your fate. Goodbye," he says, and turns sharply on his heels, not giving you time for a question or a retort.

You look away from him, at the sunlit sands of Las Noches. You scratch one horn, thinking.

There isn't much to delay you in the fortress, when you think of it.

**[ ]Make a detour by Esmeralda's "office" before setting out. **She always has her hands on some interesting supplies, and could provide you with useful items for your trip.  
**[X]Hurry back to the gate, where if you're quick enough you can catch the spider-hollow before it gets too far. **Riding it, you'll get to your destination much faster (and hopefully back faster as well).

It's a long trek to the destroyed village. You'll have time to think about your meeting with Barragan and the situation of Aizen's army. In particular, you will consider your thoughts on the rulership of Hueco Mundo. What are you? Feel free to write in a more elaborate take on any of these, or your own.  
**  
[X]Indifferent. **The powerful of this world are more akin to passing storms than persons. Whoever rules, rules, and small fries like you simply have to try and make a living under them. The personal character of different rulers do not make them better or worse, but simply different flavors of hurricanes.  
**[ ]Faithful. **Aizen freed you from the hunger, and for this you will forever be grateful. Not only do you owe him loyalty, he's also proven himself to be infinitely resourceful and clever, and the best chance for Hollows like you is under his direction.  
**[ ]Callous. **Might makes right in a dog-eat-dog world. The Espada and Aizen got where they are by being stronger, and even if you can't match them, it's up to you to get as strong as you can be to survive and lord over others.  
**[ ]Bitter. **All your life, you feared to set foot in the mortal world where the shinigami roamed. They have killed your kind for millennia, and now one of them rules over your world. You might not have been devoted to Barragan's rule, but there is something deeply wrong with a shinigami commanding Hollows.

To say that there is bad blood between you and Barragan Luisenbarn would be inaccurate for the simple reason that the gulf of power and authority between you precludes any kind of relationship. You are an ant to him. But ants are known for their stinging bite, and you hold a grudge against the deposed king. Why?  
**  
[X]You had a friend once**, a rarity among Menos. Someone you trusted not to try and eat you and who returned that trust. Then one day, he crossed the wrong line. He offended Barragan somehow, and you saw him aged to dust before your eyes.  
**[ ]You did in fact serve under Barragan.** For years you were a scout in his army. You left because you feared the devotion of the others. You never expected him to think well of you, but he doesn't even remember your name or your mask, and that stings.  
**[ ]You were once part of an organized settlement**, Hollows foolish enough to think the desert was large enough for them to live independently. One day Barragan heard of you, and the next his armies were swarming your village. You've been a nomad ever since.  
**[ ]Write-in.**


	3. Chapter 3 - Paces in the Sand

_You catch the spider-hollow still near the walls of Barragan's hall. Good- you had worried, for a moment, that the spider had travelled too far, and you would not be able to catch up. It is hard for two legs to match the speed of eleven… or fourteen- it is hard for two legs to match a multitude._

_It looks up at you from where it had stopped, atop the remains of a Hollow. Your pace slows for a moment as you sense something from it- hunger, a ravenous hunger- but it's swallowed in an instant, and it acknowledges you with a hearty, "Hello!"_

_You acknowledge the greeting with one of your own. Then you look down at the corpse beneath it. A fresh meal?_

_"Indeed." It smiles as pleasantly as a spider can. "Are you hungry?"_

_No. The denial is instant. You are not hungry, but you are thankful for the offer. You have not eaten in some time, and you can feel the faint stirrings of hunger in your gut, but you decline to share that with the spider; and besides, it is not a hunger that can compel you, now._

_It dips its head in acknowledgement of your thanks anyway. "So why have you sought me out again, little hollow?"_

_You need a ride again. You have a long distance to walk, and you're not sure how long it will take._

_"And why should I let you?" It folds its legs in four places so it can bring itself closer to your height. The smell of Hollow-flesh flows over you as it talks, stirring the faint flames of hunger in your stomach until you fight them down once again._

_You can help it. You cast around desperately for a moment, thinking. Then you see the sand still sliding from its back. You- You have cloth! A shawl, to keep it clear of sand! Your curtains, of course, but you do not tell it that either._

_"A question, pray tell," the spider asks, eight eyes focusing on you at once, deathly serious. "What use have I for a shawl to cover me from the sand, when it is known that I live beneath the sand?"_

_You pause. It is a good question, you admit with a wry twist to your mouth. You are not a clever girl._

_The spider chitters gleefully, and you realize you've been had. "Still, my thanks for the thought! Keep your shawl, young girl. I ask for nothing but conversation to pass the time, and that you not eat me when we reach our journey's end."_

_A fair trade. You have no desire to eat it, anyway. It is friendly and it talks well. You pull yourself up on the spider's back, settling once again into one of the uncomfortable almost-seats in its abdomen._

_There is a pause, and then the spider chitters once more, its voice echoing within its cavernous interior. "Many powers I have, but mind-reading is not amongst them! You must tell me where you wish to go if you wish us to arrive within the century, my girl!"_

_Nemo. Your name is Nemo._

_"Nemo, then. Still, you must tell me which direction we travel in, unless you wish me to walk as I will and simply hope we arrive at your destination!"_

_Fair. You lean out of the carriage and provide him with the directions Barragan gave you earlier._

_It gives you moments to settle in and find your position before it begins to speak again. "I must say, I had not expected such a place of power when I offered to bear you to your destination. Such power you hide behind that mask of yours, little one!"_

_You snort mirthlessly. It is not your power; it is that of Barragan. The words are short in your mouth, almost resentful._

_"Alas, then," it replies, although no regret lies within its tone. "Perhaps one day you, too, shall command such power!" It chitters again, pleased with the idea, or perhaps amused by it._

_Perhaps. Such power is not for you to aspire to. Power such as that, power wielded effortlessly, to crush any and all that stand in your path, like Barragan and his ilk- hunger rises in your heart at the thought, even as revulsion worms in your stomach. The power to crush any in your way, deserving or undeserving._

_It is in the nature of a Hollow to seek power. Perhaps you may achieve that power, one day. Perhaps not._

_"If that is what you hunger for, you just might," your spider-friend says in turn, as its long legs carry you with ease through the shifting grains of Hueco Mundo._

"You take me to the most interesting places," the spider comments as it comes to a halt.

Water is rare in Hueco Mundo, but it does exist. You are standing on a dune, overlooking a glittering pool of water. Small, but beautiful, the moon rippling across it waters. And besides it is a village - or was, once.

It's nothing but ashes and burnt foundations now. You feel sorry about taking your new friend to such ominous places, but it only chuckles (it's a disturbing sound, full of clicking mandibles).

"Don't worry about it. It's only par for the course in this desert. Will you be needing a ride back?"

Yes, and perhaps a little further before that. This is only the raided village; if your search bears fruit, you will likely have to follow a trail elsewhere, to wherever that mysterious army came from. If it does not… Well, perhaps it would be better to keep riding forward, away from Las Noches, than coming back empty-handed.

"If you need to go further it will have to be alone, I'm afraid. We ran for days, and I am quite hungry. I will be hunting in these dunes for a while. When your business is done, come back, and I will be happy to take you back."

You're grateful.

You're also afraid. The last time you bonded with another Hollow… No, this was ages ago, and besides this spider could not be said to be a friend yet. It does not deserve thinking about for now.

Even if you _are _running an errand for the very man who killed him.

You hop off the spider and wave to it. It answers with another clicking of mandibles, and then is gone in a spray of sand, its agility belying its size.

You tighten your cloak around your shoulders, feeling an eerie chill on your skin, and set off towards the village.

There's a part of you, a distant and detached part, that wishes it could actually have seen the village itself for the sole reason of seeing a change from Las Noches's sterile, gigantic, overbearing architecture. Alas there is very little to see here - square patterns of stone, broken beams of quartz cut from the white stone-trees of the desert, heaps of collapsed rubble. Cinders, here and there, and charred marks on the broken stone.

There is no wood in Hueco Mundo; buildings are made of stone. A village cannot simply be set on fire. This was the work of a Cero. A Menos was here.

And there is blood. No flesh, no bones, but blood on the stones. You pass your finger through it - it is days old now, but the feeling of faint spiritual potency lingers. Hollow blood, then. And there is a lot of it now that you know to look, staining many of the ruins. But no body.

Whatever horde came to this settlement must have devoured the inhabitants on the spot. An orgy of hunger leaving not one scrap of flesh, but messily staining the feasting hall. You've seen it before.

Such a number of Hollows would have left a trail, but it's been too long; wind has covered the wake of the marching spirits. You pace the village, time seeming to lose meaning as you explore ruined hovel after crumbling house, street after outskirt, and find not one footstep to follow.

Ah, but in the end you do find something, although it takes you a long time. At the north end of the village, you spot a little thing sticking out of the sand. You bend over to pick it up and find it heavier than you thought - you brush off the sand and pull out of a dune a piece of bone-like material, slightly curved, with a hole in the shape of an eye. A Hollow mask - not always an easy thing to digest, especially on the move.

It's outside the village, so perhaps it was someone attempting to escape who was run down and eaten on the spot. If that's the case then you don't have any lead. It could be, however, that it was dropped by a Hollow of the army as they marched away from the village, their assault ended. It's worth a shot. You set off towards the northeast, walking slowly and scanning the ground.

There, a white quartz-tree has lost a branch, broken by the passing of some lumbering form. You have a better sense of their direction now.

It takes a very long time. Hours? A day? More? You are no mortal, bound by hunger or the need for sleep. You are no Fraccion, consumed by her self-importance, convinced that there is better for her to do elsewhere. You are patient, cautious. You walk, back and forth across sand, examining rocks and trees, picking pieces of Hollow bodies, bits of torn fabric out of the sand. You trace the path one step at a time.

Eventually you see it. There is a rock in the distance, a blue-white protrusion jutting out of the sands. A mountain, although perhaps smaller than one. The army marched in this direction, and you feel confident that this was their destination. You stop tracking and start running; you dash across the sand, cloak floating on the wind, seeming to disappear for a half-second every time your feet touch the ground. The rock looms ever larger as you approach.

When you begin to see the shape of creatures you slow your run. Inertia carries you forward, sliding across the sand; it scatters over you as you take an angle and come to hide behind a dune. Your fingers twitch nervously, hoping you haven't been spotted from afar; you lie down in the sand and crawl on your hands and knees.

The horns of your mask poke from the dune, and beneath them your eyes. You don't feel very comfortable with this. You're a stealthy kind, certainly, but Hueco Mundo is all open terrain, terrible for the likes of yours.

There is an opening in the rock. It is very tall, and very rough; a jagged knife wound in the mountain, such that you are not sure whether it is natural or Hollow-made. What was certainly made by hand is the sigil above that opening; a crude image of a four-sided crown hovering over a butcher's cleaver. Around the gash - the door, you suppose - a handful of Hollows idle. They are no Menos, although their forms are particularly twisted; a snake-like creature whose arms are twisting lampreys rebelling against its will, a rolling slug with a dozen of hands as rounded and soft as a babes, a great masked tiger who would be awe-inspiring if its legs were not all of slightly different sizes, making his steps crooked, and more besides, sometimes coming out of the gate, sometimes going in. You think they're supposed to stand watch, although they do not excel at it; two of them are engaged in some kind of game in the sand, tracing lines, throwing sticks, counting points. One of them is obviously hunting for food without daring to go too far from his position, and meeting little success.

A small Hollow lizard scurries its way up the dune, staring at the rock with you. What a simple existence for this mindless creature - feeding on ambient reiatsu, hiding from taller and bigger things, never knowing age, guilt, or true hunger.

You snatch him from the sand and chew off its head in one bite. You might not need to feed upon spirits anymore, but it still tastes good. The rest of it goes down in two separate gulps, and your tension relaxes somewhat.

A handful of guards do not make an army. Likely inside this rock is some troglodytic palace where dwells their Menos lord and most of its cohort. You need an approach.  
**  
**[ ]Approach openly. You of all people know that raiding villages and murdering dozens does not mean one cannot be a polite and organized ruler who receives envoys gladly.  
-[ ]Present yourself as an emissary of lord Aizen, ruler of Las Noches.  
-[ ]Present yourself as a wandering Arrancar, looking for shelter and perhaps a powerful master.  
**[ ]Attack immediately.** This number of Hollows are no match for you, and if you dispatch them quickly you can break into the rock before any defenders can muster up a response.  
**[X]Infiltrate covertly.** Use stealth and misdirection to get inside the rock undetected, and do your best to remain unnoticed as you make your way inside.


	4. Chapter 4 - We Pride Ourselves On Servic

You grasp for a stone, clutching it in hand as you look for any kind of hard surface near the Hollows; you find one, the remains of a pillar, long ago worn away by the wind and the sand, yet still standing; perhaps as a testament to some great civilization of Hollows, that once ruled over the land? Regardless of your musings, you throw the stone at the ruined pillar, waiting for the clack of stone upon stone that will distract the Hollows that guard your target.

At the moment that they look towards a singular direction, you identify the closest nearby dune in the opposite direction, feeling the air in your cloak as you dash towards it faster than any normal Hollow could perceive; the sound of the sonido muffled by distance and your cloak. Sneaking closer to the entrance, you quickly dance inside the darkness; instantly feeling more safe as you slink along the walls like a shadow.

The snake-like Hollow slithers towards the pillar, but the others are already losing interest, going back to their idle occupations. You were fast enough, however; your hands grasp the wall of stone, and the Hollows are looking outwards now, for threats or opportunities from the desert. You are behind them. You slide along the wall towards the great gash that is its excuse for a door, and when your probing hand finds no purchase you dash forward, into the unknown.

The first thing that surprises you is that there is light inside the hallway, although it is a pale, flickering blue thing. You look up, and find orbs of odd and varying shapes suspended from the walls; what could they be? Before you can study them you hear footfall and look frantically around you for a hiding spot, but find nothing; you see a leg turn a corner and in a flash of insight, jump…

The Hollow passes below you, never thinking to look up, a lumbering ape-thing with crimson fur. You squat on the light orb, keeping your breathing slow and quiet until he's gone, into the outside. When you're alone you look down at the light and find out that it uses no combustible; but tiny Hollow creatures with glowing thoraxes - you would call them fireflies, but they are too big, and fireflies do not have pincers - swarm, trapped in a prison of quartz. Ingenuous.

You leap from lamp to lamp, until one of them creaks and bends slightly under your weight, and you consider that they are not meant for such acrobatics. You pause to assess your surroundings; you are in a very high corridor, much higher than it is wide, roughly hewn from stone by some titanic might. It splits ahead of you, branching into three, and when you look straight ahead you can see the path widening into what you think is a great room. You focus on your senses, and there it is - the beat of a potent reiatsu, like a distant heart, in the heart of the caverns. This would be the Menos, then.

You could send out a Pesquisas and assess exactly how many Hollows there are, and their power, as well as know the location of the Menos; but it would almost certainly sense you in turn, and recognize the probe as a threat. For now you wait as a group of three Hollows move from one of the three corridors ahead to another, then hop down from your lamp.

Ahead is not only the Menos you seek, but a number of Hollows. Not only can you get a vague sense of a general, spread out spiritual pressure, but you can see them in the widening room (are these banners hanging from the walls?) and you would almost certainly be found if you entered there. Instead you take the path to your left, where you feel the least pressure.

Here too the path widens, but in turn the ceiling caves in, lower and lower until it feels like the height of a normal corridor. In the walls you begin to see hollows and alcoves - and over your silent footsteps you hear the muffled breathing of sleeping creatures. Curtains have been thrown onto some of these alcoves, ragged thing perhaps brought back from the living world or woven from some other Hollow. You hurry through this space as quietly as you can, but the deeper you get the more alcoves they are, and the deeper into the walls they are dug; some Hollows sit in them, an array of trifles at the side, the little entertainments of Hueco Mundo. A lizard trapped in a cage of quartz, a series of painted rocks, the frayed and torn garment of a human brought here as a memory.

Skipping along the walls here is too risky. Instead you take a scarf you've tied at your belt, which you normally use when facing sandstorms in the desert, and tie it over your mouth; then you puff out your split cloak, hunch your shoulders and advance at a crooked space. You are the picture of a Hollow, with nothing to show the broken part of your mask, and as long as you move in shadows your cloak seems part of you, useless trailing wings of leather. A few Hollows raise their head as you pass, bored, but quickly go back to their own self-absorbed interests.

You exit the living quarters and the tunnel narrows and curves upwards. You pass a series of entrances to smaller, more private spaces dug in the rock, in which dwell other Hollows. One makes you pause. There is a small room, with a round stone table at its center, and there is an insectile Hollow sitting on one side; she has three gracile legs and a split body, but her upper body is that of a woman wearing the mask of an ant. Before her are five Hollows from the same mould, disturbingly similar. How could such a thing happen? Did she make them in her image, an illusory company, or could they have all died as humans in such a way as to bind them like this?

On the table is a platter of undetermined metal, and on it is a mound of cooked flesh.

"Now dears," the ant-like Hollow says, "you must not complain. It is great generosity of the Butcher King to feed us, who do not dare to hunt; and yes, it is not much, but we must make do. At least here, we are safe."

The 'children' respond in a series of confusing, wordless clicks; you wonder if they are truly sentient. You walk away, deeper into the rock, closer to the reiatsu; but soon the tunnel starts to slope too high, you can sense the Menos being lower. You look around in confusion for a moment, then spot a branching path in what you thought was the entrance to a room; you go there and start to climb down. You hear footsteps again, a Hollow comes up. Not wanting to test your disguise under close inspection, you dash into an empty room and let a crawling many-armed thing move past you.

You descend, closer to the Menos, but also to the throng of Hollows near him. You find your way to a wide room which is not lit by the pale flicker of the fireflies, but instead by red heat… There is a pungent smell around you, a smell of blood and cooking meat.

There are many Hollows ahead of you, you can tell from the sounds. You hug a wall and turn an eye past the corner, into the room.

A dozen of more human-like Hollows, ones with hands dextrous enough to hold tools, are busying themselves around great stone table and great stone ovens and waving around great iron knives. They take pieces of meat and put them on the slabs, cut them apart, cook them in the ovens, and others take platters of the meat and disappear into the rest of the caverns. There are even two Arrancars here - the weak, natural kind, their bodies deformed, their masks ripped off without much guidance -, managing the fires with their feeble but agile hands.

Someone is coming, but not from the kitchen, from the path you just took. In a panic, you look around and see an open door inside the kitchen - you kick the ground and disappear, crossing the distance to it in the blink of an eye. In the noise of the cooking, no one hears you.

You stop to catch your breath. You are in a small room lit by a single firefly-lamp, and around you are wide stone jars and things like coat-racks suspended between the walls, and hanging from them-

Hollows. Dead Hollows, suspended from hooks, a stain of blood where it pierced the skin - but not much blood; they were dead before they were hanged. They are of a weaker sort, roughly-shaped animal creatures, their bodies lacking the definition that comes with strong power and will. There are maybe a dozen of them, and…

The mask of one of them catches your eyes. It is broken in a specific way, a way which you struggle to remember…

Ah, yes. It fits the piece of mask that was your first clue at the ruined village.

"I'm sorry, do you work with us?" comes a voice, and you start. You look at the far side of the room, where a Hollow with long, slender limbs and golden fur, wearing a mask sporting a frozen rictus, steps between two suspended bodies. He doesn't seem alarmed yet - there are many people in these caverns, he cannot know them all, but you don't know enough about the place to put together a convincing lie.

So you thrust your hand forward, and a grey wisp which seems for one moment to take the shape of a face crosses the distance between you faster than you can blink, hitting the long-limbed Hollow square in its mask. It stumbles backwards, to stunned to scream, and you dash forward - your hand falls upon Polilla's scabbard and you thrust the sheathed blade pommel-first, hitting the Hollow in the temple with its hilt. It slumps to the ground, unconscious.

You dearly hope the noise wasn't enough to be heard from the kitchen. You approach one of the stone jars and slide its heavy lid aside - then wrinkle your nose at what's inside. It seems like these are the marinated remained of Hollows whose bodies were too damaged to hang from the hooks. Or perhaps they were cut into bits intentionally, as part of some kind of recipe.

Either way, it's of use to you know. You take the unconscious Hollow, lift it on your shoulders (it is heavier than a human body, but you are strong enough by far to lift it casually), and drop it inside the vat. You make sure its head is upwards, not sinking, then put the lid back on and scramble back towards the door.

No one seems to have noticed you.

"These cuts are far too thin," a Hollow grumbles in a guttural tone. "This isn't even a full meal."

"It's what we have to work with," says another in an indifferent voice. "We have to feed everyone, and that means stretching things out."

"If we didn't have to feed the weak ones who couldn't hunt on their own, we'd have more," a third one grumbles. "People who contribute, get contributed to. That's what I say."

"But then he wouldn't be the Butcher King, would he?" The second one answers again. "That's the whole point of this. We feed our own. We give a stipend of food to all who are within our walls, without discriminating on strength. That is the point. That is why we are Butchers, and that is why we bow to a King, who can make all of this happen."

The third Hollow snorts, but goes back to his work. They keep talking, but move back to practical matters, questions of inventory and supply.

But then you hear one thing of interest.

"Is the King's meal ready?" a new Hollow asks, bursting into the room. "The hour's coming."

"Yes," another answers, "first vat on the left. but that Gillian we killed is wearing thin. We will need to venture into the Forest again soon."

You look at the vat on your left. The King's meal, carved out of a hunted Gillian, preserved for food.

You're mildly admirative. You've rarely met Hollows who could manage to keep supplies of their meat, or who bothered to cook anything. Such a thing as this kitchen is miles above anything you've seen outside of Las Noches - old or new.

That said, you have to get to the Butcher King.  
**  
[ ]Lure one of the cooking Arrancars into the storage room, and steal their uniform. **Then grab a platter and head for the King's chamber with purpose, as if you belonged here. Of course, once there you won't exactly be hidden when comes the moment to act...  
**[X]Hide yourself in the vat containing the King's meal.** It is literally heading into the wolf's den while dressed as dinner, but you will certainly have the advantage of surprise.  
**[ ]The walls of the caverns are roughly carved and you should be able to climb them. **Follow the King's meal to him by sneaking above. Just hope no one looks up…  
**[ ]Something else?**


	5. Chapter 5 - Sing-Along

This is not the worst idea you've ever had.

The Hollow is coming; you don't have much time to think. You slide the heavy stone lid of the vat and jump inside, landing with a wet splash, and curl up; then you pry at the lid from below and awkwardly push it back into place from beneath.

When you're done, you hear footsteps coming in the storage room, and you feel the vat trembling around you; you sense that you are being moved. You curl up tighter and try to be as quiet and as weightless as possible.

You're sitting chest-deep in meat rubbing against you as the vat is shaken. There's a thin layer of fluid at the bottom, but you're not sitting in liquid; rather the meat has been slathered in a thick gravy, smelling sickly-sweet. You are aware, all too keenly, that these square cuts pressing against you were carved out of another Hollow. The smell is pungent, reminiscent of distant memories to you, but the cooking and seasoning changed it enough that it does not make you truly hungry.

...where did they find seasoning in Hueco Mundo?

Even through the closed stone of the vat you can hear sounds outside. You must be moving through main corridors, with Hollows talking and walking around you. Just how many people live in this butcher kingdom?

Voices rise, enough that you can hear them, disturbingly childish.

"Snatch away a lone Hollow,  
Put him on a hook;  
Flay him while he's raw,  
Then give him to the cook!"

Did they just rhyme 'hollow' and 'raw'? Well, you're not surprised. It's not the first Hollow nursery rhyme you hear, and they always have something in common - they're created by mad, heartless monsters with no books to read, almost nothing in the way of culture, and only other mad heartless monsters for audience. The results are… Predictable.

"The Butcher King has a great big mouth,  
The Butcher King has a great big knife,  
The Butcher King has two great big hands;  
The third one catches you,  
The second one slices you,  
The first one devours you!  
Last one standing is a fine king's meal!"

Other voices rise further, dissolving the rhymes in the inchoate hum of a crowd; the vat is shaking harder, taking turns, likely to avoid people on its path.

You hear… Music. Percussion sounds, rhythmic and visceral, pounding beats that reach your thorax even through the vat. There is clapping too, hands and paws slamming the ground heavily. And then it stops, all of a sudden, and the voices go quiet.

"And in mere moments, before you, come from afar to display their skill and grace to a true king, the Dancers of the Salar de Luna! But first, a new course, a meal fit for a king. Hunted in the Forest of Menos by our bravest warriors, the fierce, mindless Gillian, seasoned with nectar of the Seven-Hollowed Ant!"

Eeeew.

Suddenly you feel your motion angle upward rather than forward; the vat is being lifted in the air… And then put onto an elevated place, trembling with the shock of its weight. Voices rise again, people chatting, and you tense. This is it; this is the moment. You clutch Polilla's hilt, bracing yourself for action…

The stone lid slides heavily, falling to the side of the vat, and you freeze. An enormous mask, easily your own size in height, stares at you with beady eyes; it is bone-white and shaped in the form of a vicious oni, fangs curving at angles out of its mouth, a long and sharp nose stabbing out of its face like a blade.

And atop that mask is the four-sided golden crown of Barragan.

"AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, LITTLE MORSEL?," the giant speaks, its voice the rumbling of an avalanche. "ARE YOU SO EAGER TO FEED YOUR KING, YOU CHOSE TO BE PART OF ITS FOOD?"

You blink twice rapidly and panic.

The energy comes like a surge, forming in your chest with a breath; it travels upwards, rising from the lungs, mixing in the trachea, and then splitting again in the horns of your mask. It gathers at the tips, between the two antennae-like protrusions, a pale grey orb twisting with unseen faces. Before the Butcher King has time to react, it erupts in a surge of energy, a translucent beam that frays at the edges like mist in the morning or the clothes of a ghost.

The Cero catches him square-on, engulfing the mask, and the King rears back with a howl of pain. The laments dissolve, the weeping fades in the distance. You blink again, mind catching up to your actions, but by then it's too late to do anything but commit. You catch the vat's lid, hurl yourself onto it, and kick - blinking out of sight with the bang of a Sonido and hitting the smoking mask of the Menos, catching its nose to stabilize yourself. You push on it, kick yourself up, land on top of its head…

The feasting hall is far, far below, the crowd of Hollows looking up at you dumbstruck. You see great stone tables arrayed before a cohort of monsters, and the same knife-wound in the rock that is the main gate of the cavern ahead of you. Great black cloth flows beneath you and the mask like a torrent of night.

It's a Gillian; the Butcher King is a Gillian. It would actually have been much worse if it had been smaller (and thus an Adjucha), but the sheer size of his mask while standing above you in a marinade of Hollow meat just made you panic. You kick yourself internally. But at least you're standing on his head while he is stunned, the crown at hand; from up close you realize that it is far taller and wider than you'd imagined, too small for a Gillian's head but too large for your own. But if you can take it and bolt out of here, the mission will be accomplished before anyone has time to react. You grab the crown and pull…

...it doesn't come. You pull harder, and something groans, the crown moves, but is still stuck. You look down.

With its head too wide to put on the crown without it slipping, the Butcher King had it hammered into the upper side of its mask. It's embedded there, small cracks running from the point where it was beaten in.

Before you have time to reassess you approach the great body moves beneath you, and giant hands rise together. You duck to the side before they can slam on you, but when they meet the strength of the impact is such that you are knocked straight down from the Gillian's body; you fall, fall, and hit the ground hard, pain lancing your shoulder.

"Defend the king! Kill the intruder! Eat her alive!" Come rallying shouts from all around the room. You rise up, shoulder bruised, to see a half dozen bestial Hollows leap over their tables and dishes to come at you. They are weak compared to you, but large, numerous, and with a master ready to seize any advantage they can get by ganging up on you…

You breathe in, channel the power from your lungs, the orb is born between your horns again. Then you stare down at the ground and fire the Cero Fantasma; energy flows out and spreads around you, twisting in a whirlwind of mist-like fire, unseen faces crying within. The Cero spreads around you like a dome and swallows the contenders. They are blasted at the far ends of the room, and you stand alone for one moment.

"IS IT THIS RELIC THAT YOU WANT, CROWN-SEEKER?" The King says, reaching behind him. From against the far wall of the cavern he raises a butcher's cleaver, terrible in size. "THE ROOT OF MY POWER. THE ABANDONED LEGACY OF OLD BARRAGAN, THE FOOL WHO KNELT."

The King's clawed foot kicks at the stone table in front of him, and it flies off towards you, heavy and too wide to dodge, but you make a jabbing motion and fire off a Bala. It hits the table, cracks the stone, and deflects its course; it smashes beside you on the rocky ground, Hollows running from the impact. His path free the Butcher King steps forward and brings down his terrible cleaver, immensely strong but slow, too slow. You roll to the side and the blade cuts into the earth, shaking the ground, its impact sending a gust of wind that feels like a blow to the stomach. But you draw Polilla in one smooth motion, and while the Gillian is pulling his blade out of the rock you slash at his wrist, cutting the dark fabric of his great cloak; blood sprays on the ground and he howls, pulling back in a haste.

Two Hollows, too devoted for their own safety, jump towards you before you can take advantage of the opening. The first one is lion-like, a quadruped, and you thrust your free hand over your shoulder, sending him rolling away with a Bala. The second one is the great crimson ape you saw before; he roars and barrels down on you, fists like hammer. Polilla deflects the first punch, your speed lets you dodge the second, and before he can guard himself you swipe up, slashing his mask in two. He falls down and you are alone.

Somewhere, amidst the shouts, the running, the commotion, there is laughter and singing.

"Kitchens churn, bodies burn,  
Stars are shining bright.  
It's your turn, now you learn,  
How our King feasts tonight!"

You turn on your heels to face the King before he can compose himself, but it is too late. The cleaver is coming down on you, a curtain of steel falling down, and it's all you can do to raise Polilla in an horizontal guard above your head. The blade falls with terrible strength, but your zanpakuto is beyond any mortal blade; it does not break.

Instead it is your strength that is wanting. The sheer impact of the blade caves in your arms; you fall to one knees, your guard brought down, and the cleaver bites into your shoulder. With all your strength you push back, keeping it from slicing you in two, and finally it relents, withdrawn by the King's hand. He steps towards you, long black coat sweeping the ground - from so close you can see the patterns of faded red running down the length of his body, testimony to his countless meals.

"NO CHALLENGE, THEN? NO TAUNTS, NO INSULTS, NO WARNINGS? WHO DO YOU SERVE, TO COME ALONE IN MY WALLS? NO VOICE, NO ALLIES, NO KINGDOM - YOU ARE NO CROWN-SEEKER. YOU'RE ONLY A GHOST."

Blood drips to the floor. Your wound is wide and long, a bloody gash that tore through your cloak and uniform, bleeding now on your chest and back. You flex your left hand, and it responds - perks of the abstract biology of spirits - but the shoulder itself is weak, and you're bleeding. You find your breathing ragged, and sweat pearls on your brow. But the cleaver is heavy, unskilled; you're confident you can dodge the next blow, and in the opening-

"FIND A BETTER PURPOSE IN DEATH THEN, MORCEL."

The Butcher King opens its bloody mouth, and spiritual pressure rushes over the room, intensifying in an instant. Scarlet light gathers between the curved fangs, a pulsing orb of power, and the King breathes: a Cero far too wide to dodge bursts out to swallow you.

You answer in kind. From between your horns surges wisp-like light, rushing to meet the red tide. Your Cero is far smaller in width - but at the end of the day it is as powerful as the King's own, merely focused instead of spread out too widely. Grey and red slam against each other but your Cero pierces through his, the red light scattering into a deflagration between you two, at the center of the room, but your own Cero pushes back that tide, and when the shockwave shakes the entire cavern the brunt of it is towards the King. Stone tables are knocked back by the impact, dust rains from the ceiling. Hollows scream out, running away.

You take one moment to catch your breath as the King stumbles backwards, dazed for the count.

**Seize the moment. **

**[X]Defeat the Butcher King.** Even if you claimed the advantage this will be easier said than done; but the other Hollows will be too terrified to intervene, and if you engage and slay the King one-on-one they will surely run rather than cause you any more trouble. You can take the crown from his body.  
**  
[ ]Take the crown and run. **You don't have to risk yourself facing this opponent. Now that you know the crown is stuck in his mask, you can strike where it's embedded and make off with it. That means getting out of the fortress and away with the Menos and his army at your back, but it's better than a chancey duel.


	6. Chapter 6 - Kingslayer

You have never been proud.

A fragile, speedy creature with flight as her gift, you were never the kind to seek battle's for battle's own sake. You sought only to survive in a hostile world, to protect a friend, to escape the notice of the mighty and terrible. When you challenged others, time and again until that very word was buried into your being and became a sword, it was not an arrogant shout for them to prove themselves. It was merely you, standing up, and defying the world that would take your life. Your challenge was never - "you can't beat me." It was rather, "I will survive this."

But now you stand here, weak, obsolete, cast out of mind by those who conquered your world. Still serving them because it is your only path forward, but consigned to obscurity.

You've never been proud. But you're so tired of being trampled upon.

The Butcher King reels back from the explosion of Ceros, and you seize this opportunity to dash in. You aim straight for the great black cloak and lash out with Polilla, tearing the black fabric; passing between your giant opponent's leg you slash to the right, cutting deep into the ankle, then pivot on your heel and bring the momentum of your rush into a second cut to the left ankle. Then you bolt out from underneath him as the King begins losing its balance. He tries to turn to catch you, but his wounded feet betray him; he falls to his knees with a thunderous crack, hitting the ground where you stood an instant before.

Good. Now that he's closer to the ground, his mask is in range of-

The cleaver comes down, but not at you, and for a moment you don't understand. It hits wide, at a sharp angle from the ground. But then the Butcher King, both hands on the handle, sweeps it towards you and you understand. The blade comes for you as a moving wall of steel, raking the rock and scattering a spray of dust. You run away in a panic as a great screeching sound of sliced stone pursues you, but it is closing in faster and faster. You're too close to the walls, you can't run out of the blade's range…

You stop, boots screeching on the ground, and turn sharply. The wall of steel closes in, and you brace yourself. Then you jump.

You leap through the air, the cleaver's spine rushing to meet you, and twist your body in the air like a gymnast, legs reaching to the sky. The blade catches a strand of hair as it passes beneath your head… And then it's gone. You land on your feet with a gasp. The Butcher King's giant mask looks at you, his arm too extended, but you don't have the momentum to close in while he's open.

You thrust your free hand forward, once, twice, three times, grey wisps streaking out and hitting his face with a deafening impact each time. Cracks run down the Gillian's mask as he is momentarily blinded.

No good. Your wounded shoulders prevented you from putting your full strength in these Balas. You were hoping to capitalize on this moment with a final Cero, but he's already recovering.

"DO YOU NOT EVEN HAVE A NAME, CROWN-SEEKER?" The King growls as he sweeps the ground blindly with one hand, forcing you to duck back. Black blood drips from the cracks in his mask, but then… Stops. High-Speed Regeneration. You don't have much time left to win. "YOU WHO COME CHALLENGE A KING WITHIN HIS OWN HOME, WILL YOU NOT HAVE THE DECENCY TO INTRODUCE YOURSELF? DISGRACEFUL…"

You have a name, and you are not a cold-blooded assassin. Indeed, your blood is anything but cold; panic and sheer tension excite every nerve of your body, making you twitch at every motion. You couldn't pause to tell him your name if you wanted to; all you feel is fear and the rush. A few Hollows remain but none move against you, sticking to the walls of the feasting hall in fearful terror.

The King stands up, rising his cleaver, and for a moment you think your attack on his legs was for nothing; but then he falls back heavily to one knee, and with his wounded wrist must take the cleaver in both hands…

No, he's not taking the handle. He's putting his other hand on the the back of the cleaver and holding it horizontally… You step backward in an awkward stumble as he brings down the blade, slamming it into the ground with such strength as to split the stone, but he missed you by a foot, and now you're in the clear-

The blade rises again and falls again, faster, and you fall back on your behind as you push yourself to avoid it. It rises again, and again, and again as the Butcher King works himself into a frenzy. You scramble on your back, then on your knees as the blade falls closer and closer, you manage to push yourself up and run, run, but he is faster than you, his great knees moving him forward and the cleaver falling and falling… Then it rises higher than before, you hear a colossal breath, and you know the worst is to come; in a mad dash you hurl yourself forward, roll to the ground, and the blade strikes down with such strength as to shake the entire cavern.

It missed you by an inch. You are panting, sprawled to the ground, but the cleaver does not rise again. You don't have time to think, a second attack like that will kill you. You push yourself up, whole body screaming with ache, and jump up as high as you can; your free hand catches the cleaver's back for support - your shoulder wound lances through you like a Cero of its own and for a moment you think you'll let go - but you pull yourself up, rest your feet on the blade, and stare the Butcher King in the face. His mask's cracks are already healing, his beady eyes burn with anger, he is slowly trying to get up; but you're faster. You jump forward, grabbing Polilla in both hands, and rise above him. He looks up…

Strength and gravity and momentum combine and you fall on him ramming your sword to the hilt in his mask, cracks spreading from the point of impact. The Butcher King howls, reeling and almost buckling you off him, but you hold fast. You put your hand in one of the cracks for support, pull out your blade, and stab again and again at the top of his head, where the crown was hammered into his mask; the King falls onto his back, his hands try to catch you but pain makes his motions spastic.

The crown comes loose. You thrust your sword in the mask one last time for support, release your free hand and grab the golden edge of the ornament, and pull. It bursts free from the bleeding mask.

You don't think. Every nerve in your body is acting on instinct. You wrench the crown back behind you, you grip the hilt of Polilla, and you let the power come. Staring down at the King, you fire your third Cero of the night, point blank. So close to his head and the ground the energy scatters along the surface, the deflagration spreading out in a wave, coming back towards you and singing the edges of your cloak and uniform. The Gillian's mask shatters.

Then it ends, and all is silent. You stand atop a broken body for a few moment, breathing haltingly. Your shoulders and legs are still trembling slightly from sheer tension and exertion.

You have the crown in hand. Golden and tall, almost a strange hat. You hop off the Butcher King's head and slowly, painfully, start walking towards the exit.

A great mass shifts behind you, scratching the ground.

No. No, he cannot possibly…

"COME BACK," the Butcher King's voice says, still as deep but now with a hoarse edge and a pitifu,l pleading tone. "COME BACK. GIVE ME BACK THE CROWN. I AM NOTHING WITHOUT IT."

That's not true. He's alive, and he's powerful. In Hueco Mundo that is worth more than all the thrones in the world.

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. THE SYMBOL… THE LEGACY… IT HOLDS THEM TOGETHER… IT MAKES THEM COME TO ME… IT MAKES US WHOLE."

The great body moves, barely. Struggling on its hands and knees. Its face-

You wish you could forget his face behind the shattered mask, but you never will. Sometimes you still dream of it.

"I HAVE TO BE KING… SOMEONE HAS TO… AFTER HE FAILED, AFTER HE GAVE IN TO THE REAPERS…"

That's not your problem. That's never been your problem. You're small fry, and like all small fries, you abide and eke out a life beneath the powerful. Trying to be king only gave this Gillian torment. His kingdom preyed on all around it, a Hollow writ large, and in the end someone stronger wanted something from him and that was the end of it.

He should just survive, that's plenty enough.

"I CAN'T ACCEPT THIS. I CAN'T ACCEPT OUR KING IN LAS NOCHES BENDING THE KNEE. SOMEONE… SOMEONE HAS TO STEP IN…"

You have the crown. It could end here. There's nothing more to be gained in this.

"GIVE IT BACK!"

A mouth, a horrible, broken mouth, black with tainted blood and yellow with broken twisted teeth, a tongueless abyss of a mouth, opens; and before that mouth an orb of red light, and it surges…

You grit your teeth, and throw the crown in the air with all your strength, out of the way of the beam. That leaves you no time for your own Cero. So you grip Polilla in both hands and dash forward into the crimson light, and raise your thin, dull grey blade before the beam. But your sword is a zanpakutou, a soul cutter, a sword to part away spirits themselves, and so the Cero parts before it; you move into the beam, its power scattering before you but still intense to erode your being as you move. Your split cloak is torn from your shoulders and burns to cinders in the torrent; your uniform is scorched, the flesh of your face and wrists is burned, and still you move.

You scream; it's been so long since you last did. It is a wordless shout, a cry of anger, of desperation, a challenge to the world. It says you will survive. It says also that the Butcher King could have lived, could have endured, and your anger that he chose not to.

You reach the heart of the Cero, beyond which is only the mangled face of a fallen ruler.

You thrust your blade.

* * *

You were perched up in the spindly branches of one of Hueco Mundo's strangest features - the subterranean forest. Hunger gnawed at you, as it always did, and your fear of dissolution sharpened it into a potent goad. This made your finding this place fortunate; forests were often full of the tall, mindless hollows.

Speak of the devil. One had appeared, ambling mindlessly through the vast rocky trunks below, mouth open and nose sniffing the air. It hadn't seemed to have noticed you.

You blasted it with a dusky Cero that took the form of a screaming soul, and then flitted to another tree before the smoke cleared. With luck, it had been crippled or mortally wounded, and you could eat it at your leisure. But you're generally not that lucky. If it turned into a fight, at least it couldn't simply aim for where you had been.

You tensed as a tall shape burst through the smoke and- was it running?

It was. Your meal was running away, honking in distress.

You stared for a moment, then gave chase, dashing from trunk to trunk, trying to get a clear shot on the stupid, stupid- !

It was luck, more than anything, that saved your life in that moment. Your immaterial flitting certainly hadn't been deliberately timed for when the mess of spikes and threads collapsed upon the space between the trees, turning your target into mincemeat.

You stayed perfectly still and tried to blend into the deep shadows of the subterrain and calm yourself. You had been... very close to being diced yourself, you realize.

"That was amazing!" called a voice from behind you.

From behind you.

You turned around slowly, ready blast at the slightest hint of danger. There, on the ground, stood a small, white hollow which resembled a mantis, if mantises were covered in spikes. Were they? You weren't sure.

It was still staring at you. It didn't... look dangerous.

A chunk of meat slides down your tree.

"Most people don't survive that," it added, as if that would be a comfort to you. "Do you, uh, want to split it?"

Split it? You were suspicious and hungry in equal measure.

It - he? - began to stammer, claws fiddling at nothing. "I mean, you did half of the work, right? I can't really, uh, most of the time, that is to say-"

His stomach growled.

"I can't exactly make anything go into my traps, right? It's a lot of waiting."

And?

"And, I was wondering if you might help me with that? Bait- or herd, whatever, maybe you don't want to be bait - the tall ones into traps, and we can split the meal," he ended hopefully.

You would like to say you considered the matter thoughtfully, but you were hungry. You'd accept any offer that promised more meals than simply hunting yourself.

"Huh? You will?" he perked up. "That's great!"

An awkward pause.

He coughed, gesturing vaguely at the mass of hollow-meat. "So uh, you first? Friend?"

You were already eating.

And so it went, for quite a while. Two hollows, hunting in the forests hidden beneath the sands. One to set the trap, and the other to bait it. The mantis proved to have a rare passion, for a hollow, and would invent ever more elaborate trap sequences for you to lead the menos into. It was dangerous, pointless work, flitting through mazes of collapsing wires and hurled darts when a basic tripwire and noose would do, but you indulged him. It broke the monotony, at least.

But tools and traps could be tracked. Could be used to hunt a poacher down, even if the hunting grounds had never been marked as property. Could be shrugged off by a Hollow of sufficient power and boredom, who would take such an intense interest in such a petty crime, to chase the criminal across the endless sands and subterrains, far beyond the pillars of his palace. Could be used as evidence in a pageantry of a trial, and tossed on to a grave after an execution.

Hollows don't age, truly. But they can starve, go mad, and eat themselves when a thousand years pass in the blink of an eye. Breaking your mask freed you from those waking fears, if not their dreaming echoes.

* * *

You put the crown on the ground, and kneel.

Barragan straightens in his seat, and frowns; for the briefest moment you see surprise in his eyes, but then you are nothing again.

"I trust the thieves were dealt with."

Of course. All who stood in your way perished. That is how the king would have wished it.

"Can't have been too hard," says one of his Fraccions. The long-haired, shirtless one with too many tattoos - Abirama? He scoffs. "She's not even injured."

You don't answer; you're not meant to. You tighten your new cloak to hide the spot where you had to sew the cut in your uniform's shoulder - a large, black cloak, heavy on your shoulders, cut from the habit of a foe whose name you will not be asked.

Barragan motions with his hand, and Findor steps forward quickly, taking the crown. As he nears you his eyes slide on you and you feel the tension in his body, the anger in the twist of his lip. He takes the crown to his king, who takes it in his hand; Findor bows and moves quickly aside as Barragan examines the item.

"Do you know," he asks, and you understand that the question is not meant for you (but you haven't been dismissed, and you're afraid to move before you are), "why I valued this simple object?"

"Beauty, your majesty?" Charlotte answers, a tall, broad-shouldered and muscular Arrancar with lustrous hair. "It is quite fetching an ornament."

Barragan scoffs, and Charlotte looks down with a flush.

"It's a gift, majesty." Findor says confidently. " A servant put great work into it and offered it as a proof of fealty. It belongs to you and no other should hold it."

"Ah! I have received countless gifts in my years as king, and none mattered. Many I aged to dust in front of the gifter, just to show them how meaningless trifles are in the face of kingship."

"Of course," Findor says, bowing. "Forgive my presumption."

"It's got a cool power, eh?" Abirama says with a knowing grin, rubbing his chin. "You told no one 'cuz you didn't want word to get out and there being even more thieves, but it has a secret."

Barragan looks at him, narrowing his eyes, and Abirama's cocky demeanor fades away into visible concern.

"You think I care about thieves enough to bother lying to such specks as yourselves?"

"N-no, majesty, I… I'm sorry."

Barragan pays him no further attention, going back to his examination of the crown.

"All things in this world die. Mortals age, cities crumble to ruin, mountains erode down to dirt, even ghosts and spirits wither away."

As he speaks you feel his spiritual pressure rising and your breath catches in your throat. You swallow nervously as it grows in intensity, and his Fraccions begin looking uncomfortable. You see a strange shimmer around the crown, faint images of pale blue fire flicker in and out of sight, and a haze surrounds the headpiece.

"But some things cannot die. All kings perish in time - save for I - and the crown changes heads, but kingship is eternal. It can take a hundred forms and names, it can masquerade itself as something else, but at the end of the day someone will rule, until the stars go out."

The haze intensifies and you begin feeling even more uncomfortable than Barragan's sheer pressure warrants. There's something in the tip of your fingers, a wave licking at your skin, wrinkling your fingertips… And the crown is changing, slowly, its shine fading little by little.

"This is a crown of gold, and gold does not rust, does not corrode, does not erode in the wind. It is a useless trifle but it is a symbol of something greater. The crown does not age. Kingship does not die. It simply changes hands. And the crown cannot sit on the head of one who is not king, even if it is itself without value."

Your eyes widen in fright as before them the stone chair of Barragan begins eroding. Thin dust blows from the arms and back, and in moments the entire thing dissolves and Barragan stands, still holding the crown in his hands, which shivers, twists, whose golden sides cave in slightly. You can't breathe; you feel your body, so distant from the center of effect, still changing inside you. As if every second stretched forever - or no, as if every second contained a thousand other seconds you experience in a blink.

Barragan stands, his throne a thin layer of dirt on the ground, and tosses the crown to the ground. It falls between you. It looks odd now; wrinkled, its luster faded, dent marks in a few spots, but still a crown. Weathered but not destroyed. The wave passes and you exhale sharply, your shoulders shaking.

Then Barragan seems to notice you again, having previously forgotten your presence. He narrows his eyes, staring down at you.

"Tell me, mayfly. What would you do with this crown?"

You really wish this weren't happening right now.

You don't care. You don't care about a useless piece of gold. You don't care who rules. You don't care about Barragan's musings on kingship.

But in one respect his words speak to you. He is right: "kingship," or however you want to call it, endures. There's always someone more powerful making themselves top dog of the world. And people like you just learn in what ways the new boss is bad and in what ways he's indifferent, adapt and live with it.

And right now someone far more powerful is expecting you to have drunk the wisdom of his words and to spit it back out, so that's what you're going to do, because even a bad answer is better than no answer at all.  
**  
[ ]You would give it to Lord Aizen. **He is the ruler of Hueco Mundo now, although he does not call himself king. Kingship changes hands, but there is always a king.  
**[ ]You would keep it to yourself. **Barragan is the King of Hollows, now as he was then, even if he answers to someone else. The crown is a crown for Hollows, a title for Hueco Mundo.  
**[X]You would bury it in the sands.** The crown is only a symbol, it does not matter in itself. Kingship remains and changes hands regardless of who holds the crown. Bury it that other pretenders do not steal it and play at ruling, then let it be forgotten.


	7. Chapter 7 - Buried in the Sand

It's not your place to say, but an answer you're asked, and so an answer you give. You motion behind you, to the place beyond Las Noches, to the sands. That is where you would take it; and you would bury it, so that no other fool ever comes to take it and play pretend, and invade disaster upon himself. So that you don't have to kill them over a meaningless icon. Kingship, such as it is, does not need a crown to anchor it. All know who to look up to. All acknowledge power.

Barragan chuckles mirthlessly, and waves his hand towards the crown.

"Take that bauble. Carry it into the desert beyond Las Noches and bury it."

You swallow nervously. There is no need for him to warn you against stealing it. No need for him to give the task to one of his known and trustworthy servants. It is a menial duty unfit for even them, and if you are led astray in conducting it you will die, and he will get the crown back eventually. All that is understood without needing to be said.

You take the crown, quickly, as if you were afraid that it would take flight and leave you to be punished for failing to catch it. You bow deeply and walk out of the room, trying your best not to break into a run; Barragan gives you no regard, but the Fraccions' gaze is heavy on you - one curious, one dismissive, one irritated. You clutch the crown tightly against your chest, too big to simply hold it in your hand; you have to wrap your arm around it.

You leave Barragan's hall and walk across the sands for hours until you reach the walls of Las Noches, and pass from them into the cold night outside. Then you walk for hours more amidst featureless white sands.

You feel strange. The crown is too heavy in your hands; at times the distance seems to stretch, a single steps takes you a minute, a few yards several hours. But at the same time you don't feel quite like it's true; your body is at odds with your mind, and as you instinctively try to reconcile this contradiction your head starts to ache and throb.

There is a chittering some distance from you, and you wrap your black cloak around the crown, looking in that direction.

It is the spider, of course, coming out of the sand and staring you in the face.

"Hello again, little moth," it says.

You're happy to see it, but you're confused how you seem to stumble into it whenever you leave Las Noches.

"Oh, this time was no accident. Your spiritual pressure is weak, but in this empty desert, it is easy to sense and recognize. So I came to say hi; I was surprised you'd leave again so soon after I brought you here."

You puff your cheeks. Your spiritual pressure could be very strong if you _wanted_ to, you're just not fighting right now, so it's quiet. Right, that's the word: quiet, not weak.

The spider laughs. "Of course, of course. A lowly Hollow such as myself would not compare my spiritual strength to that of an Arrancar, anyway."

It's totally being sarcastic right now, but you'll take the point anyway. You lift your chin with magnanimous haughtiness.

"So anyway, do you need a lift somewhere? I am warning you - my services will eventually start to cost you!"

It's teasing you - it wouldn't have hounded you across the sands upon sensing your presence if it hadn't liked the idea of company. Unfortunately you must decline. Barragan would not like you letting another Hollow see where you buried the crown.

"Oh, secret missions for the powerful? You must be moving up in the world."

You smile weakly. Chores and errands, really.

"Well, be that as it may. I will leave you to it, and promise you not to pry. And if you ever need me again… Well, just wish upon a star, and maybe it'll happen."

You frown. You're about to protest that there are no stars in Hueco Mundo, but it's already burying in the sands, and then is gone. Maybe next time.

You look up at the starless sky, and miss the tiny things.

You walk on. With every mile the crown becomes heavier and your steps feel slower. At times it seems like you are a single grain of sand in the desert, and must walk past each other grain one step at a time. Your heart beats very, very slowly.

Eventually, you stop. Las Noches still feels just as close as it was when you set out, its size defying the imagination, but you know it is far away in truth. You bend down to dig - but then you realize you don't have to work in such a crude way. You look around you first, ensuring that no one is there; then just to be sure you close your eyes, put your hand to the ground, and send out a pulse - a wave of spiritual energy flows across the landscape and down into the ground, revealing to your senses all spiritual presences. But all you get are a few tiny, mindless autotrophs in the miles around you. Standing up, you breathe in, raise your hand in a claw-like motion, then strike down again and again, Balas cause the sand to erupt high in the sky as you dig further and further; eventually you stand in front of a hole at least a hundred of meters deep, erupted sand already trickling slowly down into it.

You take the crown, holding it before you, and spare for it one last look. It is still a crown even so weathered; battered, wrinkled, shineless, but golden and forged by hand. A creation of someone's art and desire now discarded.

You wouldn't steal it. You're not so foolish. But as you examine it you feel a strange sensation under your thumb; as you examine that point of the crown, you see a faint tear in it. You run your finger and it plays under the gesture, moving under pressure. It must have been damaged during the battle with the king - or perhaps before that, when it was forcefully planted in his mask.

As you play with it it comes loose. It sits in your hand now, a small triangle of gold, shaped like a tooth.

It's stupid. You know this. But you're a moth: you slip through the window into the homes of those far greater and more powerful than you, and there you are drawn to their light. You're a thief, is this not what Barragan employed you for? Thief of curtains, thief of crowns. You bite your lip, rolling the gold tooth in your hand.

You toss the crown into the hole. Then, with more Balas - enough that in the end you are panting, winded, your spiritual energies weak - you push the mounds of sand back into the pit. When you are done there is no indication that anything was ever there, only a dune of white sand.

You turn back towards Las Noches.

In your hand you hold a tooth of gold.

o\O/o

When you reach the inside of your apartment you are prepared to inspect everywhere for hidden intrudars, but Esmeralda is openly and _brazenly_ sitting on your "chair," smiling widely.

"You're back! And you don't even look hurt. Although you have a new coat? I'm sorry, I know how much you liked the old one. But I'm glad you're unharmed."

Nonono. You put a finger to your lips, narrowing your eyes. You are very much not _back_. In fact, you're somewhere far away in the sands, still on the way home from Barragan's mission.

"Really? You think that'll fly?" Esmeralda asks with a chuckle.

Oh, it will. You were very careful on your way back to walk stealthily, to not be in view of the most used windows, you even used Sonido a few time to move between buildings, but mostly kept your spiritual pressure as low as you could… There's only her, because of _course_ there's her, somehow always knowing you're back before you're even home.

She beams.

"Well then, I guess that can be our little secret… But you shouldn't take too long. The bosses are always looking for someone wanting to run an errand, and they keep assigning the job to me. I guess because we don't get into a lot of fights at the moment they feel they can spare a medic, but since I'm just a Hollow I can't do the jobs they want. So they just have me go around fetching people for them…" She sighs. "It can't be helped, I suppose."

You give her a dubious look. At least she just has to fetch people, not do the work herself. Your sympathy is limited. That just makes her chuckle.

"You're so cruel! That's because you don't need me, isn't it?" She says with a mischievous look. "Don't think I haven't noticed. They send you out to do all sorts of things, and you're only a Numero, but you never come back hurt. Sometimes your clothes are, but not you. I never get to sew you back up and poke at you with needles…" Her expression is full of exaggerated regret. "What's your secret?"

You raise an eyebrow. You don't see why you'd tell her anything, when she's keeping secrets of her own. Last time you came by she was waiting for you in your own apartment and that was a first, but she had pulled that kind of stunt before, always being right at the corner you turned waiting for you. And after your sneaky approach of today you don't buy her stories of 'someone spotted you and I heard about it' anymore. So if she's not going to tell you how she keeps knowing where you are and where you're going, you're not going to tell her how come you've never ended on her operating table.

"Fair enough, fair enough!" She says grinning again. She does this entirely too much, it's… Distracting. "I guess we'll both have our little secrets to each other."

She claps her hands. "A promise is a promise! I'll leave you to your rest now. But don't be late tomorrow, I really need to foist these orders on someone."

You nod, then wave your hand to shoo her away. Esmeralda leaves, followed by her giggling.

Once alone you sigh deeply and look at your room. You're just… Okay, you're exhausted. You can go days without sleep but you don't actually know if you don't need sleep, because eventually sheer psychological tension leads you to lie down and embrace a few hours of nothingness anyway. And nothingness sounds real good right about now.

You remove your uniform, then throw yourself on your back in the heap of Hollow-silk sheets that make up your bed, wrap a few layers around you, and close your eyes. Sleep comes quickly, but it comes… Fitfully. You dream - or you're not sure you dream. Your body twitches, spasms. You feel as if the strange stretching of time you experienced after coming into contact with Barragan's influence and carrying his crown is retracting now; as if hours are collapsing into seconds, as if your body changes, your muscles quivering with days of marching in the span of moments. But throughout all this you sleep; a fevered sleep, with chaotic, senseless dreams, a sleep that will not let you be sure if any of these strange distortions of time actually happened to you… But sleep still. It is a kind of rest.

In a hollow in the wall, hidden under a rock, the tooth of gold glimmers in the dark.

o\O/o

You have carried one item back from the Butcher King's fortress with which to decorate your room. Which is it?  
**[ ]Half of his mask, split length-wise, which you will hang on the wall as a strange kind of sculpture. What fearsome fangs.  
[X]New curtains, made out of his black cloak, plus a few accessories besides your coat (scarf, overcoat?). Fetching, but lacking in color.  
[ ]His great cleaver knife, the blade broken halfway (it would never have fit otherwise). You planted it in the ground and leave it there, occupying space. Don't cut yourself.**

Tomorrow you're getting a new assignment, but this time it's nothing so lofty as working for the Espada. Or, in a sense it is… Except the old Espada, the Privaron. Those made obsolete just like you.  
**[ ]Dordoni wants something done off the book, and needs someone stealthy to do it. **You'll have to slip under the notice of Las Noches's shinigami.  
**[X]Cirucci is dissatisfied with her uniform and got into a spat with Las Noches's tailor.** She needs you to act as a go-between.  
**[ ]Gantenbainne wants a sparring partner. **He promises to go soft and that you could pick up a few tricks from him, but no Numero is touching this with a ten-foot pole.


	8. Chapter 8 - The Thunder-Witch

You blink open your bleary eyes, your body feeling sluggish and your mind downright muddy.

You wince as you try to get up, head aching, muscles hurting like after a day of intense effort.

No, not quite a day of intense effort… More like months of doing nothing, and a single moment of sudden intense action. A body reawakening. It feels disturbing, and more than this, out of place. You've done plenty of effort lately.

You look at your skin and there is something about it that you don't recognize. Is it… Harder? You flex your hand and it sends a throb of pain in your shoulder, which isn't normal. Not only were you not injured when you went to bed last "night" (insofar as there is such a thing in Aizen's fortress), even if you had been you would be healed by now.

You feel strange. Standing up, you walk to the middle of your room and start a simple workout routine, the kind you do every so often despite other Numeros telling you it's useless in a spirit body. You feel… Well, not stronger. But your innate power is answering differently. It's been months since you were in that Arrancar body and you've been progressively learning how to control your reiatsu, but this…

You pause and understanding dawns on you. As an Arrancar, you've always had the same spiritual power as you did as an Adjucha. But this new body, fresh and untested, couldn't properly handle that energy; much of it was wasted when you expended it, leaving you to feel as if you'd grown weaker overall. But now you feel more control over your latent power, as if several more months had passed and you'd slowly grown accustomed to this new form.

But that didn't happen. So what could have caused it..?

You don't have time to ponder these questions right now. Work is awaiting and it's not like a Numero can call in sick. You get your uniform and cloak.

* * *

Of course, few people ever want to meet the Pillar Princess.

The Thunder Witch? You're not sure which of her nicknames is more in vogue right now. It could be a problem if you use the wrong one.

You do get the Pillar one, though, more than the Thunder one (does she even have lightning powers? You're not eager to find out). You're currently walking in her "domain," one of the forts at the edge of Las Noches, in a vast empty room with orange walls, filled with red pillars of varying size.

That's the thing with the Privaron. They may be disgraced, granted a special number marking their obsolete status then sent to occupy some useful but inglorious position at the outskirts of Aizen's domain, but they were still Espada once: when they claim a place and say "this is mine," small fries like you just nod and say "yes ma'am."

Now where could she possibly…

"Hey, you!" You start, very visibly - it's a bit shameful, really - and look left and right before remembering where you are and looking _up _\- and there she is, standing on a pillar, arms folded and looking down with a sour look: Cirucci the Thunder Witch/Pillar Princess/Yo-Yo Waltzer (she really doesn't like this one anymore). A short Arrancar but still taller than you, her black hair falling straight on her shoulders, wearing the simple white uniform of your small army, a conservative white robe going down to her feet.

"What are you doing in my kingdom? Don't you know I eat little Numeros for breakfast?"

You're pretty sure this is a joke. Preeeeettyyyy sure. Mostly.

In any case, she's the one who ordered you to come here. You cough to clear your throat.

"Oh my, are you the one they sent to deal with my problem? What a sorry little thing you are."

Cirucci clicks her tongue and hops down from her pillar, a dubious look on her face, and you have to keep yourself from instinctively stepping back. Her spiritual pressure this up close is terrible, a kind of prideful, spiteful power, and you tense instinctively, straight as a plank. The Privaron looks you up and down, checking your sword critically, then steps back. You allow yourself to breathe.

"Would you believe that I don't even have my own Fraccion to handle these things anymore? Shameful, just shameful." There's an angry twist to her lips as she takes a few steps back, whirling in the midst of her pillar forest. The dress looks off on her. "I'm ten times the Arrancar this lumbering oaf is, whatever his spiritual pressure is. And he doesn't even have a Fraccion, just a… Dog. Or whatever. He's powerful but he's not _regal_."

The turn of the conversation is making you antsy. You were just looking for simple orders, not gossip about people who could kill you in one blow if you mocked them the tiniest bit.

"You're like a wooden stick, girl," Cirucci tells you with a frown. "It's making me uneasy."

You bow apologetically and try to relax your posture. You succeed only moderately.

"In any case this won't do. I may no longer be an Espada, but I am still of their kin. We're nobility and I won't be treated like some kind of rank-and-file. You understand that, right?"

You're not sure you can, but you nonetheless nod as enthusiastically as you can.

"Good! Now off you go," Cirucci says, waving her hand in a gesture of dismissal. She then leaps up several yards in the air and gracefully falls sitting on one of the lower pillars - her dress once again folding badly and damaging the effect.

After a few seconds she looks down and sees you, and gives a puzzled frown.

"What are you doing still here?"

She didn't actually tell you what your mission was. You stumble around that fact, trying to express it as politely as you can, but then she cuts you off.

"That's just like my staff, to forget that kind of details. What am I supposed to do, explain myself again to the help? Pah!"

She hops from the pillar again - you swallow nervously at the renewed pressure - and makes a flowing motion of her hands that encompasses her dress from the top on down.

"This is bad. Right? I look like a nun." She chuckles at her own joke, then pauses. "Did they still have nuns when you died? I didn't keep up."

You're pretty sure they did, although all that is a bit blurry now.

"Anyway, I've been trying to get a proper dress out of this idiot for weeks now, but apparently I'm a secondary concern now. Because clearly it takes a month to carve out that living asparagus's moon-collar. Is it a moon? I first I thought it was like, a saintly halo or something, but he's clearly no saint."

Is she trash-talking Nnoitra Gilger? You would like to be somewhere else right now.

"Anyway, you don't look like you have much fashion sense. No offense, darling, but full Hollow mask on an Arrancar is just tacky. So I won't bore you with the details; I gave that damned talior all the indications. You just have to go to him and tell him that he needs to hurry himself up. There's a princess waiting."

...does she think you got to choose how much of your Hollow mask you kept when you transformed? No, never mind that, it's not important. You nod rapidly, give her a bow and anxiously look at the exit.

"When you come back I'll teach you how to do a proper curtsey," Cirucci says offhandedly. "This isn't cutting it. Now go!" She adds with the same quick, wavy hand gesture. You are all too happy to comply.

* * *

"I can't believe you don't know where to find the tailor of Las Noches. How did you even get your current uniform?"

You don't answer that. You take a hurt expression, but Esmeralda can't see your face behind your mask, so it loses some of its effect. She laughs.

"Of course I remember! I went and fetched it for you! Well, that's what you get for not doing things your own self. Now stop complaining and follow along."

You weren't even complaining. Not loudly, anyway. And you were already following her, although you're not sure she's not stringing you along; you're in the underside of Las Noches, descending a long flight of stairs in a grey stone underground.

"Where'd you get that new cape, anyway?" Esmeralda asks. "I remembered you liking grey better than black. It looks a lot like…" She pauses, her eyes widening a bit. "Did you..?"

It's a cloak, not a cape, which she knows and is teasing you about. And you don't like to talk about it. Esmeralda shakes her head.

"Suit yourself. We're almost there anyway…"

As she speaks, you turn a final corner of the stairs and come into a wide room, all heavy grey stone lit by odd round stone that seem to perfectly imitate the color of the sun.

And it is full of clothes. That's the first thing you notice: glass display cases all along the walls, coat-hangers, sewing tables, all filled with uniforms. Some are stored and displayed like prized possessions (you think you recognize the rather striking cut of Aizen's shinigami-inspired kimono-and-jacket combo), others are heaped upon a table in a disarray of models all subtly different from each other (ten different takes on the same bare-bellied, high-collared jacket).

There is a sound of cutting, sewing, and humming, and a strong spiritual pressure in the room; you hesitate to enter, but Esmeralda smiles defiantly and steps forward. You're not sure how she does it; she's definitely not a combat-type, and her own spiritual pressure is rather weak (weaker than your own, you think, although you wouldn't bluntly tell her that), but she never seems bothered by the proximity of powerful Arrancars. You follow after her, trying to shrug off the disquieting sense of pressure in the room and looking around you for that "tailor."

As you take a few steps inside, the sounds of working stop, sending a shiver down your back. Esmeralda stops, and motions for you to do the same; but then your eye catches something. A beautiful split coat, its two folds patterned like wings, like your old one but put together by a professional. You reach out to it…

"What are you doing in my workshop? Hey, don't touch that!"

You start and back away, looking frantically around you until your eyes rest on a man with long, unruly brown hair, staring at you suspiciously. He is tall and slender, wearing something like a patchwork made out of a dozen discarded attempts at the standard Arrancar uniform sewn together, and what remains of his Hollow mask forms a kind of circle around his left eye, like a monocle without its glass. He steps from behind a display case, and you see that he is carrying a zanpakuto - in the form of a great pair of scissors strapped to his back.

"What do you little ones want?" He asks a bit more politely now that you aren't threatening to touch what is undoubtedly his creation. But before either of you can answer his eyes stop on you and he stares aghast.

"My god, you're a disaster. What's that cloak? Did you cut it yourself? With your own sword, I bet."

You look dejected. You thought your cloak was pretty nice. Sure, it's not wing-like, but it's a trophy, and-

"Stop fidgeting. Look at me." And he's upon you, one finger raising your chin to stare him in the eye. Up close the spiritual pressure is intoxicating, and you clutch your fists to stop your hands from shaking. "The fabric is good. You took it from a Gillian, didn't you? And not one of the mindless ones we used for food, either. A sentient, powerful one. The cloth is still infused with his reiatsu."

He steps back and you inhale sharply. Behind you, Esmeralda bites her lip, a look you can't quite decipher on her face. The tailor pushes your cloak aside, letting it fall over your shoulder, and sees…

"What's that. Did you get my beautiful uniform cut? Is this why you're here, to ask for a spare? That isn't worth my time! Not for a Numero!"

You shake your head frantically. You'd never bother a powerful, important Arrancar for that kind of personal business.

"Aaah, so it _is _the cloak. Nice thinking. Yes, with such a gift I could put together a nifty little ensemble… Better if you had more, of course…"

Esmeralda steps forward, smiling. "Alphonse, she's here for one of the Privaron."

"That little _brat?"_ The tailor exclaims, eyes wide. "Do you have any idea how hard she's been working me?" Without saying anything further he turns suddenly and walks off. You give Esmeralda a puzzled look and she points to him with her chin, so you follow awkwardly.

"First she tells me, 'I need it puffier.' So I make this!" He says, waving to his right at what looks like an intricate dress, fitting of a noblewoman of centuries ago, and now thrown haphazardly onto a table. "She sends it back, saying 'no, shorter.' So I make this!" He points to a white knee-length skirt of a kind you've never seen but would believe was likely very fashionable once. "But then she says, 'where are the stockings? Where is the lace? I need it sexier!'"

The tailor snaps around, staring you in the face with his wide eyes, and you freeze.

"What's 'sexy?' I don't even know the word! I ask for more details. She tells me, 'it's a gothic style.' So obviously I think, 'ah! I have it!' and produce this!" He says, dramatically showing a simple tunic held with a geometric golden brooch and covered in a cape. "She tells me, 'not that kind of goth!' So obviously, keeping my complaints of historical accuracy to myself, I deliver!" At this point he shows you a thick, multilayered robe, decorated with fleur-de-lys patterns and a long scarf wrapped around the space where the head would be to cover hair and neck.

"And still she complains! She accuses me of not keeping up with the times! What times? Does she have any idea how long I've been in Hueco Mundo? I used to be in the employ of Barragan himself! _I-follow-Hollow-fashion,_" Alphonse says, thumping his chest with a thumb. "And she wants make up! And something that can make her hair curl! I'm a tailor, not a make-up artist!"

You try very hard not to wince - you're pretty sure he would feel it even under the mask - and instead just nod rapidly along with whatever he says, trying to keep prepared for whenever his outburst will put you in danger and you'll have to run; but instead Alphonse stops, visibly spent, and closes and opens his hands reflexively.

When there's been a few moments of silence, you swallow and open your mouth. Then you close it. You raise a hand and the tailor stares at you blankly.

"Right. Your mission. Well, did she give you a comprehensive, detailed description of the exact kind of uniform she wants?"

Not exactly as such, no. Of course, a very reasonable, very professional, very unconcerned-with-their-own-life Numero would have asked for that, but by the end you were getting somewhat worried that if you stayed any longer you would start hearing some kind of criticism of the bathroom habits of the shinigami, or the obsession of Number 6 with keeping his chest bare, and then you would be struck dead out of nowhere on your way to the tailor.

"Well, it's no use then." Alphonse makes a gesture like flicking dust off the air. "You're gonna have to go into the living world and bring me back enough data that I know what the hell a 'gothic lolita' is. "

You blink.

"It'll be completely illegal, of course. I can't very well tell lord Aizen, 'I need to break confinement so that one of the pariah can get the exact clothes she wants.' We'll have to keep it to ourselves. But it's that or you go back and get me what I haven't been able to get all this time.

Well then.

**[X]Illegally go into the living world to steal clothes.  
[ ]Go back to Cirucci and risk her wrath to get an exact description of the style of clothes she wants.**


	9. Chapter 9 - Harajaku

"A wise decision," Alphonse says with a nod. "I have been informed of a place within the living world which should hold the key to Cirucci's desires, a center of fashion. I have no doubt that style has only grown more refined in the decades since I last set foot there."

"Okay, back up a bit," Esmeralda intervenes. "How are you going to send her to the living world without anyone noticing? I mean, I've seen her Descorrer. No offense, Nemo, but it's a bit… Loud. And slow."

"A fair point. Although given her lack of hesitation, I would wager this isn't the first time our friend does this sort of thing, is it?"

You have the good manner of looking down and blushing.

"Well, be that as it may. I have just the trick," Alphonse adds, drawing the pair of giant scissors from his back. "Now I just need the right measurements…" He frowns, touching the air with one hand, then licks his finger and passes it through the air as if brushing the outline of a door. "Yes, perfect."

The tailor takes a step back and opens his scissors, and with a sudden motion you can barely follow starts cutting at nothing, the great blades clicking madly as he draws an oval outline… And when he stops, the air in front of you falls back, like a piece of cardboard cutout, and you are staring at an ominous, buzzing blackness.

"Take this." Alphonse tosses you an object, which you catch in the air; it is a tiny bell. "Ring it when you need to come back, and I'll cut you a way. Oh, and this too!" He adds, grabbing a pile of paper sheets and a pencil and pushing them in your hands. "For the notes."

You stare dubiously at the menacing hole in the world, only to feel a sudden push as someone kicks your behind. You turn on your heels outraged, and Esmeralda is grinning at you - but there's an edge to it, the smile isn't quite sincere.

"You should be glad you get to abscond in the living world when I get stuck here! Now go, and don't let yourself be caught by some shinigami or something, all right?" She folds her arms. "Or else I'll have to look for someone else to do that job!"

You sigh, turn back and step towards the opening, Alphonse nodding encouragingly. You cross the threshold, feeling the air go cold on your skin...

"Be safe!" Esmeralda calls out, and you turn to wave a goodbye, but the hole is already snapping close.

Well. No way to go but forward.

You walk in darkness, a thin shroud of your own spiritual energy protecting you from the dangerous influence of the void between worlds. You take cautious steps, focusing your energy to form a thin platform of light beneath your feet, and you walk there one step at a time. Darkness surrounds you but it is not empty; it swirls, buzzes, hums and moans. You are not quite sure of the nature of this place, and frankly you don't wish to find out more. You keep your head down, tighten your cloak, and quicken your step, until there is light ahead of you, and then…

...the last time you came into the living world, it was at night.

You had forgotten what a crowd was.

It overwhelms you at first, almost completely. Before you can even see the street or the building you see a moving mass, a shapeless cohort, and you hear it and smell it too, a dizzying overload of the senses.

You step back - and for a moment you're about to fall back into the hole in the world, but it snaps shut behind you and you just stumble backwards until you hit a wall. Putting both hands on the concrete for support, you breathe slowly in and out.

No one can see you. No one can see you. You hang on to that fact as you pull yourself together.

This isn't a shapeless cohort, you realize now. These are individual people, which is in its own way even more maddening. Clothes, faces, speech, manner of walking all different, all moving towards their own destination. Groups of young girls chatting lively. Men and women in suits walking at a fast pace towards their place of work. Young men taunting and boasting as they walk slowly, the stroll itself more important than wherever they're going. Women in strange costumes advertising stranger establishments. Couples admiring things trapped behind glass but moving on without buying them. It's all too much. Your world is smaller than a hundred people. You can't integrate all these individualities into it.

You close your eyes, breathe in and out, and open them again.

You see a shapeless cohort distinguished largely by details of clothes and colors. You relax. You're standing on a streetwalk, leaning against a wall, people passing before you. When you look up you see bright, colorful signs in Japanese, decorated arches in garish colors, and as your eyes scan the crowd you think you spot the place of which Alphonse was talking; a wide street, even more crowded than the one on which you're on, filled to saturation with signs and pictures and illustrations, hundreds of young people pressing in-between the buildings on each side. You understand the words you're reading, but lack any context for them, and so you look down from the signs before they overload you again.

You take in a sharp breath and step into the street. At first you worry that the crowd will push and shove you heedless of your presence, but you pass through them without trouble. You relax a little more.

A lot of the people around you are dressed… You suppose it's "normally," although you're not up to date with the dress code of the living world; but they are simple, practical clothing in simple colors. But a lot of them are instead wearing strange, colorful habits; their hair are dyed bright in blues or pinks or reds that match the colors of their skirts or boots or stockings. Others are dressed more somberly, but seem anachronistic; you see at least one young man in a top hat and long black coat and… You're getting overwhelmed again.

This is proving a more difficult mission than you thought. But you are one of lord Aizen's Arrancars, and you will power through.

You draw your eye away from the people and towards the windows of the many, many shops in this street. Most of them are full of clothes put on dazzling displays, but you're not sure what you are looking for. You pass by those which look ordinary (although you occasionally take awkward, standing-up-and-writing-on-paper-in-the-street notes when you find something you like, even though chances are it won't be much use to you).

You might or might not have dashed through a window to grab a nifty little scarf. No one can prove anything.

After a while you start specifically following those groups of girls which have colorful clothes that could be described as all of "puffy," "short," and featuring "lace" and "stockings," going from Alphonse's rundown. This eventually leads you to a shop in which an oppressive number of such girls are browsing through aisles of blouses and puffy skirts and lacy shirts and jackets with many shiny buttons, but this one is too colorful to really match what you understand of Cirucci; you jot down a few quick notes and leave.

...then you go back and take a really nice tie you spotted inside, then leave again.

Your meandering steps eventually lead you to a different shop. Smaller, with a more.. Rustic atmosphere, with deliberately dimmer lighting and darker styles of clothes. You look around and there it is, written amidst a thousand other descriptors you don't really get; "gothic lolita." You think you've hit the jackpot. You sit down on top of a pile of clothes and quickly start scribbling sketches of what you're seeing everywhere, complementing them with written notes describing texture and fabric and common ensembles.

Then you decide that the notes just won't do. You hop off your promontory and start roaming through the aisles, finger brushing the clothes, and here and there you stop, take an article and put it on your arm. You take a pair of gloves, a pair of stockings, a dress you like - no, which you think Cirucci will like - and then a nice pair of boots with platform-like soles that you definitely wouldn't wear but which seems to compliment the style she wants. All around you people are moving, mostly girls, admiring and taking things in turn, talking to each other, but you don't really listen to them; the moment you grab something off the shelves it becomes as invisible as you are, and your larceny goes unnoticed.

"Look at that one," whispers a voice. "The mask is a little bit overdoing it, don't you think? Even in a place like this… Although the horns are a bit cute."

There was more, wasn't it? You were supposed to grab things other than clothes. She wanted something to curl her hair, but you don't know how to do that; there seems to be some kind of unholy burning contraption designed for it but it seems to use a power source native to the living world so you don't know if it's worth taking. There's make-up, though; she'll probably like the violet tones… You're not sure what any of this is for, though. "Mascara"? Going by the advertising it's something for the eye, probably hell to put behind your mask and no one would see it anyway, unless they're staring into your eyes...

"Shukuro! Shukuro, I think she's not a patron! Look, she's just grabbing lipstick and putting it on and no one is reacting! I think she's invisible!"

"How perspicacious of you."

Cirucci will want that dark violet or that black, you think. And you're definitely not here to steal things for yourself, absolutely not. But if you _were_, you would think that this silvery grey would look really nice on you, or perhaps that dark blue. You should take it, just so you have a reference point when you have the opportunity to legitimately acquire makeup.

"Shukuro, I think she's a ghost. With a mask? Does that make her a Hollow? But Hollows don't look human…"

You freeze, the words finally reaching your brain. You put down the lipstick. You put one hand over your gigantic heap of clothes and makeup implements. You slowly turn.

You are staring at a young girl with two long, magenta pigtails, a white hat and a black-and-white dress that is a more subdued variant of the very same style you are currently browsing for. Next to her stands a tall, slender man with wavy black hair, a bored look on his face and a book in his hand, closed with a bookmark at whatever page the girl interrupted him to draw his attention.

Neither of them are shinigami. Both of them are staring straight at you.

You blink.

The girl blinks.

The man stares indifferently.

"I think she's cute," the girl says.  
**  
[X]Hahahaha hello earth mediums I am of course a normal earth spirit, not a monster at all, this mask is just a harmless fashion statement  
[ ]FEAR ME PUNY HUMANS FOR I AM THE MIGHTY HOLLOW  
[ ]RUN  
-[ ]Don't drop the fashionable clothes and notes and makeup, whatever you do, by god don't drop them  
-[ ]ALL IS LOST, THE SHIP IS SUNK, JUST THROW THE CLOTHES EVERYWHERE AS A DISTRACTION  
-[ ]Take to the rooftops! If they can follow you you won't have much cover but you'll be able to just dash at full speed.  
-[ ]Take to the streets! Lose them in the crowd and in the bending alleys!**


End file.
